


W is for White Girl Wasted

by vipjuly



Series: ZYX's [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1 fic 2 versions (see notes), Canon Divergence, Case Fic, F/F, F/M, Female Dean Winchester, Heterosexual Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 13, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 07:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18278528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Dean, Sam, and Cas catch a case in which men are being snatched from bars. Using Rowena's spell to become Deanna, Dean goes undercover to get to the bottom of things.One plot, two different ways to tell the story.Prequel:Bender





	1. Ver 1

**Author's Note:**

> this work is a sequel to [Bender](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873805), which you don't HAVE to read, but it does give backstory as to Dean's transformation & how he got so comfortable in his skin, & also why i write him/he pronouns even though he is in a female body.
> 
> if you follow me on twitter you saw [this video](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes/status/1110977601676283904) the other day where i grievously lament the fact that i was stumped by this particular story. i knew exactly what i wanted to do, but instead of seeing a straight line, i saw about 4 wiggly lines that all ended up at the same place, and got extremely overwhelmed at which one to pick. this story was start-stopped 3 times. i finished 2 separate versions, and will be sharing each with you. the first chapter is the version that i WANTED to tell, that straight line that i'd been searching for. the second chapter is version 2, the wiggly line, the version that i spit out with furious typing and lots of keyboard smashing, but is still pretty decent... i guess. both versions have fairly different tones to them. i'm gonna share them both with you as a little bit of ~inspiration~ to let you know that no matter what you struggle with when it comes to writing, chances are another author is having the same issues. we all have our own strange processes that lead us to where we wanna be. sometimes we gotta type 5k words of utter garbage to get 5k words of gold. usually i delete the garbage... but like i said, i wanna share with you the process i go through when i'm stuck with writer's block. 
> 
> so, to recap: chapter 1 is the product that i WANTED. chapter 2 is the gross smashing together of ideas that came from writer's block and my self-esteem plummeting. you can comment on both, neither, or just one. whatever happens, just know that in posting this i only hate, like, 72% of myself!!!
> 
> *Deep breath*  
> sexy tags for this chapter:  
> -asphyxiation  
> -blow jobs  
> -come marking  
> The threesome is in version 2!

Up on the bar cowgirl boots stomp and tap, bass-filled music thumping through the speakers, causing the crowd to sway and bob in time with the beat. Colored lights flash, alcohol is poured, women shriek with laughter and men get handsy. It’s not a dive but there’s no cover charge, a happy medium for people who want to go out and have a good time but also want to wear yoga pants in public. The bartenders are all pretty women, each a different flavor; it’s easy to appreciate the variety this club offers.

One bartender in particular is working extra hard to earn her tips. 

There’s a pole on each end of the bar top and the bartender currently swinging her hips in time with the song makes her way over to one, wrapping her hands around it and doing a small, graceful spin. Her sandy blonde hair whips, wavy locks bouncing and falling over her shoulders in cascades, the smirk on her plush lips directed to a man staring up at her in awe. Dressed in a white tank top and daisy duke cut-offs, she drops to a squat and then gets on all fours, crawling towards the gobsmacked man. Reaching out, she grabs his bolo tie, tugging it roughly towards her so she can lean in and whisper in his ear.

What she says gets drowned out by the ambient noise in the bar, but the man nearly swallows his tongue when he nods and puts a bill on the counter. 

The woman stands up, her petite frame graceful as she turns around, catching her reflection in the mirror mounted behind the wall.

Dean Winchester stares back. 

Whistling catches his attention and he curses this petite body as he grabs the pole to steady himself while he pivots in his boots, gaze finding one of the other bartenders smiling prettily up at him and making a gesture with her head for Dean to get off of the bar and actually serve some drinks. 

Dean makes a show of getting down, gripping the pole tight and swinging his legs around, mindful of the men sitting at the base of it, using the leverage of his small body to drop down to the floor in the bullpen. 

“Show off,” the other bartender, Erin, chides him. 

“Without me your tips would be shit,” Dean says, his feminine voice coming out amused. He uses the hair tie on his wrist to throw his hair up into a messy ponytail, grabbing the shaker Erin hands to him and mixing up the drink inside without pause. 

“Good thing they’re communal,” Erin says, sticking out her tongue.

They share a laugh, and then Cherie is coming behind the bar, looking properly harassed as she sets her empty tray down on the counter. 

“Hey,” Dean catches her eye as he starts filling up a few tumblers with whiskey. “Do you wanna switch? Those guys are kinda rowdy.”

Cherie tosses her long black hair over her shoulder in a huff. “I’m fine. Can you help me take their drinks to them though?” 

“Sure, sweetheart,” Dean flashes her a smile.

Two trays fill with drinks and Dean follows Cherie out of the bar, heading towards an area where three tables are pushed together and a dozen men are conversing loudly, rowdy with alcohol and testosterone. Dean and Cherie call out the drinks in their hands and dole them out when they’re claimed, and things go smoothly until Dean has one drink left - this last guy’s hand ends up right on the curve of Dean’s ass, finger slipping into his belt loop to tug him nearly onto his lap. 

“How much for you?” 

Dean clenches his jaw as he squirms away, “Wouldn’t sell myself to you for anything, buddy.” 

The man feigns a wounded expression, “I like my girls feisty. Bet you’re real good with that mouth.”

The smile on Dean’s lips is predatory. He leans into the man’s space, leveling their gazes, and he knows at five-one and a buck-five he’s not particularly threatening, but he goes for it anyway. “I’d bite off each of your fingers, one by one, and then feed them to you like a mama bird to her chicks.” 

The man blinks in surprise, the threat odd enough, and violent enough, for him to take his glass and turn away from Dean without further provocation. Dean smiles prettily at the rest of the table and tucks the circular tray under his arm, following Cherie back towards the bar. 

“Guys like him are so skeezy,” Cherie says, huffing. 

Dean manages a shrug as he starts putting empty glasses into the sanitizer, “Guys like him need one woman to put him in his place and then his true colors will show.”

“How did we get so lucky to have you?” Cherie asks with wonder. 

Dean sends her a wink, “Just answering your prayers.” 

Ever since Dean had started working at the bar a month ago, things had settled down. The whole reason he’s there in the first place is because men have been mysteriously vanishing from it with no explanation. Last wind they got of this town there’d been some demonic omens, but it’d been small fries compared to what they were dealing with at the bunker. Dean’s got Michael on lockdown while they bide time, and he’s been the exact definition of stir crazy. So he’d jumped at the opportunity to come to B.F.E. Hickland and check things out, and even Sam suggesting Rowena’s spell hadn’t been enough to dampen his enthusiasm to get the hell out. 

Besides, going undercover like this is loads better than the fed getup. It works well enough, but it’s about half as fun as serving drinks to rowdy cowboys and _definitely_ not as fun as hanging out with beautiful women every night. 

The rest of the night goes without a hitch. Someone spills a bright blue drink on Dean’s white tank top and he causes a riot when he just takes it off, revealing his black lace racerback bralette. He swings the tank top over his head and then tosses it into the crowd where a few men fumble over themselves and each other to get it, and then the bills are raining down over the ledge of the bar to pool at Dean’s feet on the sticky floor. At bar close it’s Dean chasing men out of the establishment, shouting baseless insults at the harmless drunks stumbling around, and then once everything is cleaned up, tips divvied, and registers closed, he makes the short walk to his motel. 

Showering off whatever sticky mess managed to land on him tonight (sometimes more than drinks, but that kind of stick definitely delivers better tips) Dean cleans up and then flops into bed in a t-shirt and panties, sighing blissfully and curling up to pass the hell out. 

Being a girl is so exhausting.

\--

Dean wakes up to the scent of coffee and bacon. He pulls the covers down, exposing his tousled bed head and squinty eyes as he stares at Castiel, who is trying to quietly set breakfast out on the kitchenette table. Taking a moment to observe the angel, Dean wonders where he’d been all night, and then finds he doesn’t care. Castiel still doesn’t sleep much, and he seems to understand that this stint of Girl, Undercover is much more taxing than blending into a sorority, so he’s been pretty scarce while Dean works the case. 

But in the early morning light filtering through the crumpled curtains, Dean takes a moment to admire and appreciate his boyfriend. Whenever Dean transforms into Deanna he also loses nearly twenty years, and there’s something about being so much younger than Castiel that pushes his buttons. That and the fact he’s literally _tiny_ next to the angel. Even when Dean is a man Castiel has an overpowering, dominant presence over him, but whenever Dean turns into Deanna things get so amplified it leaves him dizzy.

Dean, as a woman, is young and vibrant. There are no wrinkles in the elastic, supple skin of her face, her freckles fresh and bright and her green eyes filled with fire. Her hair is long and luscious, shiny and healthy with youth. She’s petite, the only curves she has in the width of her hips and the round of her ass, and she’s got so much energy she actually goes to the gym to burn some of it off.

Castiel is still in a vessel pushing fifty, the lines around his eyes handsome and the tousle of his hair a soft contrast against his stacked body. The difference in their physical age, even though it’s not real, shouldn’t be so… arousing… but here Dean is. 

“Good morning,” Castiel greets once he sees Dean peeking at him from under the covers.

“‘Time is it?” Dean asks, sitting up fully and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Just after ten,” Castiel replies, taking a seat at the table. 

Groaning, Dean kicks the covers off and swings his legs off of the bed, grumbling when his feet don’t reach the floor. He tosses his hair into a bun and then stands, padding over to the table and sitting across from Castiel. His sleep shirt is actually one of Castiel’s and it hangs off of one of his shoulders, exposing his collarbones, and his panties are plain cotton boyshorts; he can feel Castiel’s gaze on him like a brand, but he ignores it in favor of bringing the coffee to-go cup to his lips and taking a greedy drink. 

“I know my ‘content place’ or whatever is owning a bar,” Dean starts, setting his coffee down so he can pick up a piece of bacon and crunch into it, “but working at a bar is fuckin’ rough. I have a new respect for women bartenders.”

“Are you having issues with patrons?” Castiel asks. There’s an edge to his voice, which makes Dean look up at him. “If any men are-” 

“Hey,” Dean cuts him off, glowering and pointing the next piece of bacon at the angel, “I can handle myself, buddy. Down.” 

Castiel glowers in return, folding his arms across his chest. “I know.” 

“So knock it off,” Dean grouses. He picks up his breakfast sandwich, taking a huge bite out of it and talking with his mouth full. “May’ an’ pro-hress on da bics?” 

“The only thing tying them together is that they were all at the same bar,” Castiel says, understanding Dean easily. “Without bodies we can’t decipher what attacked them.”

Dean takes a few minutes to properly stuff his face and chug the rest of his coffee, sitting back in his seat and letting out an impatient huff. “This same thing happened twenty years ago. Half a dozen men taken from the area, no witnesses, no evidence, no bodies.” He stands up to walk over towards the dresser, picking up his hairbrush off of it and removing his hair tie to let his long locks tumble down over his shoulders. He starts brushing, glaring down at the wood grain of the dresser surface. “We should check out the mausoleum. Could be ghouls?”

Castiel hums his assent. “It’s worth looking into.”

Dean’s brush snags on his hair and he whines loudly, gingerly untangling his hair from the bristles as Castiel stands from the table, clearing his throat softly and slipping out of the room to head to the car.

\--

Breaking into mausoleums is never fun. Breaking into them when your body is so small and petite that you can’t force a hundred-year door open with your shoulder is definitely the exact opposite of fun. Castiel hangs back, knowing better than to interrupt Dean when he’s in the middle of a stubborn streak, but after a few painful attempts of trying to open the crypt door Dean finally steps back with a huff, making a grand gesture with his hands.

“Get on with it, we’re losing daylight.” 

Of course, Castiel opens the door like it’s made of paper. Dean grumbles and stomps past him, turning on his flashlight and descending the steps that lead down into the tomb. 

Nothing look out of the ordinary. All of the coffins are in tact, none of the wall slabs are broken, and the tomb is completely sealed. Groaning, Dean thunks his flashlight lightly against his forehead before turning towards Castiel.

“Well, ghouls are out. At least, ghouls from this dump. How many more mausoleums are in this cemetery?” 

“Seven,” Castiel replies.

Tipping his head back and staring up at the grimy, cobwebby ceiling, Dean sighs. “Guess I’ll call the girls and tell ‘em I’m gonna be late.” 

\--

Ghouls are off the menu. All the mausoleums were in good shape and undisturbed. A quick tour around the cemetery also ruled out zombies, too, and when Castiel and Dean parted ways for the evening Dean had tried his best to not be frustrated.

As a rule, while working at the bar, Dean doesn’t drink. He knows he’s gotta keep his wits about him while he’s undercover, not only so he can keep an eye on the other girls, but also so he can watch out for himself. And, after his stint in the sorority, turns out that this body can’t really hold its liquor. This also allows him to really fall into the role of Deanna Smith, spitfire bartender with a mean right hook and a sharp tongue. Dean’s never had a server job in his life but he adapts easily to carrying the large trays laden with drink and greasy food, and schmoozing customers for tips is a good use of his charms, and at the end of the night even though he’s exhausted he feels satisfied. He does good work, he keeps the girls safe, and men learn a thing or two about what is and is not acceptable to do to a lady.

Two weeks pass. Dean works, he sleeps, he wakes up and putzes around while they wait for another guy to go missing. The idea is to catch whatever is taking them in the act, and while Dean doesn’t like adding to the victim count, a small, tiny part of him isn’t particularly mournful about the fact that it’s mainly assholes that are being taken. 

Monsters, he understands.

People are still a mystery. 

Castiel pops in and out. He and Sam are working on a tulpa case a few counties over and since Dean is basically still in recon mode, they’re doing their best to split their time and do two things at once. Multitasking like this isn’t always easy, but in this case it’s helping them quite a bit. Besides, Dean can handle himself on his own. 

Halfway through the third week Dean notices that one of their regular patrons isn’t around. 

“Hey,” he leans over to Natalie, who is currently pouring a glass of beer from the tap. “Where’s Troy?” 

Natalie’s eyes scan the bar as she lets go of the tap. “Hm. I don’t know? Usually he’s here by now.” She sends Dean a sly smile. “He tips you really good, doesn’t he?” 

Dean grins wolfishly, “You bet your ass he does.” 

Natalie laughs and puts the beer on a tray with a few other drinks, and Erin swoops by to pick it up. She wipes her hands on a towel, “I dunno, maybe his wife finally told him to stop coming here.” 

Chewing the corner of his lower lip, Dean scans the crowd again. “Maybe.” 

The rest of the night goes on, and Troy never shows. The next night he doesn’t appear, or the next, or the next. 

By the time week four rolls around, Dean’s sure that Troy has been taken. It’s all too frustrating, knowing Troy has been taken and Dean hadn’t been able to get any information - Troy was a _nice_ guy, if not a little nervous and gun shy, so Dean hadn’t really been paying too much attention to him. He’d had his eye on all the raucous idiots, waiting for one of them to get snagged. 

It puts a wrench in their theory. 

And, y’know, the inconvenience of Troy not being picked up from the bar. A little bit of prying has Dean learning down the grapevine that Troy had left work and been driving home and never showed up for dinner. 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Dean says, staring at the laptop screen in front of him. He’s chewing idly on his thumb, his other hand twirling a lock of hair, brows furrowed as he reads over the information he’s gathered over the past month. “It doesn’t fit the pattern.” 

“We’ve ruled out ghouls, ghosts, and demons,” Castiel unhelpfully supplies. He’s seated across Dean at the small table in front of the window. “With no bodies we don’t know how they died, so we can’t rule out vampires or werewolves yet.” 

“It’s this twenty-year cycle that’s got me,” Dean grumbles. “Why the gap? Is it something that takes the men and feeds off of them for a couple decades and then hunts again when the food supply is gone?” 

“Could be,” Castiel nods. 

Huffing out a breath, Dean rolls his eyes and shuts his laptop so he can glare properly at Castiel. “You’re not bein’ a lot of help, you know that?”

Castiel swallows and averts his gaze. “Apologies. Sam and I have wrapped up the tulpa case and I thought I might be able to focus better here.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Why’s your focus slipping? You ok?” 

The minute nod is barely perceptible. Dean’s eyes flick across Castiel’s frame - he’s tense, and he’s avoiding Dean’s gaze, and there’s a slight blush on his cheeks…

Oh.

Letting out a surprised laugh, Dean slaps a hand over his mouth when Castiel’s eyes dart up to him. “It’s me? You can’t focus ‘cause o’ me?” 

Castiel’s jaw tenses. “You’re very distracting.” 

Dean glances down at himself. He’s wearing yoga pants and a sports bra, his hair unbrushed, a half eaten pizza in front of him. He’s being his usually slobby self and Castiel has been dutifully ignoring his grossness, like he always does, but Dean’s starting to suspect that this… feminine form is what’s distracting the angel, because while Castiel tends to silently clean up around Dean he never usually gripes about the mess. 

Cat with the cream, Dean pushes the laptop aside and rests his elbows on the table, leering across it at Castiel. “You tryna eye the goods, Cas?” 

The blush on Castiel’s cheeks darken. The last time Dean had been blessed with this body they’d taken advantage of it when they got the chance - quite a few times - but so far this time they’ve been strictly focused on work. 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice is a little exasperated, and when he’s in a female body it doesn’t exactly have the intended effect. “You were workin’ the tulpa case with Sam so you wouldn’t _jump_ me?” 

“That’s a rather crude way of saying it,” Castiel replies petulantly, still not looking at Dean.

Throwing his head back with a laugh, Dean’s knees draw up slightly as he folds his arms across his stomach to try and keep himself from falling off the chair with his outburst. “Jesus, Cas-” Putting his feet on the floor Dean fixes Castiel with an amused, fond smile, head tilting. “You know that you’ve got, like, full permission to jump me, right? Any time. Any way. In any…” he gestures idly at himself. “...form.”

Castiel’s gaze cuts towards Dean, wariness lacing his expression.

“C’mon, when I’m _me_ you can barely keep your hands off me.” Dean sits back in his chair a little, tilting his gaze towards the ceiling as he starts counting off on his tiny fingers, “We’ve done it in bed, in the kitchen, on the map table, in the research room, on that one chair in the library Crowley liked to sit in…” 

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, voice strained.

Dean sends him a dazzling smile. “So what’s the difference now, huh? Just ‘cause I’m in a girl body you don’t wanna get handsy?” His gaze narrows playfully. “I seem to recall, last time, _someone_ being very enthused about figuring out how this body works.” 

The heat in Castiel’s eyes is reflected in the flush on his cheeks that blooms down his neck, and Dean mentally puts a tally mark on the CAS - DEAN board in his head. “You’re on a case.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Since when has that stopped you?” He folds his arms across his chest, a smug expression filtering over his features. “‘Member Chicago? We were on a case then. And yet you still didn’t stop yourself from making me pull over the car so we could-”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel’s voice is strained as he sends the hunter a glare. 

“Look,” Dean drops the act and leans forward, expression serious. “I dunno if you’re tryna be some sort of ‘chivalrous’ while I’m in this body, but you can cut the crap, Cas. I’m still _me_ , and I still like sex very much, specifically with you, so there’s no issue here. You don’t gotta try and control yourself around me.”

Castiel seems to contemplate Dean’s words carefully. Just when Dean’s sure he’s gotten through to the angel Castiel stands up, tucks his chair into the table, and excuses himself. Dean watches him leave the hotel, stares at the closed door, and then huffs as he picks up a slice of pizza and angrily chomps into it.

“He’s so _dumb_ ,” he laments to the empty room.

\--

Dressed in denim daisy dukes and a red crop top, cowboy boots clicking on the floor and hair artfully tousled into what youtube called ‘beach waves’, Dean makes his rounds at the bar. When he’d showed up Erin had asked him if he had a hot date - after all, Dean’s wearing quite a bit more makeup than usual, changing up his ‘natural’ look for something a little smokier. No lipstick, because Dean plans on actually drinking tonight and doesn’t feel like leaving lipstick smudges on the glasses or getting that thing that one ‘beauty guru’ calls “butthole mouth” (honestly, girls are so weird). But Dean had smiled at Erin, kissed her cheek, and started working. 

And taking shots. 

Halfway through his shift after keeping a pretty good pace, Dean’s tipsy. So is Cherie, though, since it’s a Thursday and the slowest night of the week. Erin’s just amused while Dean dances around the bar and on top of it, raking in an impressive amount of tips for the slowest night of the week. Things go good for a few hours, Dean pleasantly buzzed but still able to keep himself on his feet, and then Erin’s nudging Dean gently and nodding towards a darkened corner of the bar as they wipe down glasses. 

“That guy’s been eyeing you all night.”

Dean casts his glance over to the section Cherie has been serving all night, a little surprised to see Castiel sitting at a table. He’s relaxed in his chair, which is facing the bar, his knees spread. One hand is resting on his thigh, his other hand on the table with his fingers curled around his beer bottle, his gaze filling with weight as soon as he notices Dean looking at him. The picture of casual masculinity.

“Cherie says she told him what section you were serving, but he said he was fine where he was.” Glasses clink as Erin removes them from the sanitizer. “Kinda creepy, right?” She spares Castiel a glance. “...He’s good looking though. For an old dude.” 

Dean hasn’t removed his gaze from Castiel. “Yeah.”

“Gonna go make some money?” Erin teases, nudging Dean again. “He looks pretty harmless.”

Dean’s smile flashes under colored lights when he replies, “I can take him.” 

Leaving the bar, Dean makes his way over to where Castiel is sitting. The music tonight is Cherie’s pick, which means it’s some sort of dance-y genre that Dean would never choose to listen to, but as Dean approaches Castiel he feels the bass pumping through his system alongside the booze he’s consumed. Castiel acknowledges his approach, fingers tightening around the bottle in his palm, Dean not stopping until he’s standing between Castiel’s knees. 

This is probably a bit too ‘familiar’ for Dean, approaching a stranger like this, and he knows that the other girls are probably curious about whether or not he knows Castiel, but that thought leaves his head as quickly as it enters. Castiel shifts in his chair, his knees spreading a fraction wider, the depths of his eyes almost black with the shadows being cast over his face. It’s a clear invitation. 

Smiling wickedly, Dean lifts his arms above his head, slowly moving his lips from side to side. Lap dances aren’t part of the job description but Dean’s enjoyed giving a few, loving the feel of fresh bills being tucked into the pockets of his shorts, finding it hilarious that men are willing to rain money on a girl who doesn’t even take her top off. Dean figures he’s just talented, got a special knack for this, and that suspicion is confirmed when Castiel’s eyes drop to the way his hips are slowly moving. Even angels aren’t immune to his charms. Not that his angel ever was in the first place. 

Dean slides his hands over the small curve of his breasts, fingers spread, and Castiel’s eyes track the movement. He only moves his eyes. His body stays stock still, coiled tight, and Dean finds himself getting hot at the thought of Castiel physically restraining himself from touching him. To think, Castiel had been distancing himself from this case because he hadn’t wanted to make an advance on Dean while he’s in a female body.

Freaking ridiculous.

Taking a step forward, Dean’s thighs are now bracketed by Castiel’s. He moves his body in a roll, chest popping, stomach rolling, hips gyrating. Turning around he braces his hands on Castiel’s knees, dipping his body down into a squat. He pops his ass up, locking his knees, allowing his torso to slowly rise, and he hears Castiel grip the bottle so tight it shatters in his fist, foamy beer and glass spilling over the ledge of the table to make a mess on the floor. Grinning, Dean turns around and moves his hands to Castiel’s shoulders, marveling at how small his hands look against Castiel’s sturdy frame. Castiel’s head tips back slightly, even though their height difference isn’t too great despite the fact Castiel is sitting. His eyes are scanning over Dean’s face, his hair, his body, and Dean leans forward to slide his hands up Castiel’s neck to tangle his fingers in those wild locks, bringing his mouth close to Castiel’s ear. 

“Just gonna sit there, big boy, or are you gonna play with me?” 

Castiel’s hands are fucking ginormous when they land on Dean’s hips and tug him forward. Castiel’s face presses into Dean’s cleavage, Dean’s fingers tightening in his hair as he lets his head drop back, hair cascading down his back as he arches into the sensation. Castiel’s breath is hot through his shirt, his hands sliding up Dean’s back in a fraction of a second. They stay suspended like that for a moment and then Castiel’s hands slide down the backs of Dean’s thighs, hauling his small body up onto his lap with little to no effort, Dean unable to help the moan that rips from his mouth at the display of strength. It’s one thing to be manhandled as a, well, man - but to be handled so easily when his frame is so small and petite… 

“I can smell you,” Castiel growls into his ear. A hand reaches up to grip Dean’s hair at the back of his head, fingers tangling in long locks as he holds Dean in place. Dean’s thighs quiver, his knees smarting from where they’re pinched between Castiel’s waist and the wood of the chair. “I can smell how wet you are for me already.”

“Oh fuck,” Dean whimpers, his pussy throbbing in reply. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Castiel continues, holding Dean in place while his nose trails over the curve of Dean’s neck. His breath washes over Dean’s skin, goosebumps springing in its wake. One hand in Dean’s hair, the other palm anchored on Dean’s ass, their position is absolutely indecent. “You always want me to take charge, Dean, but I think when you’re in this body you want it even more.” 

“I do,” Dean readily agrees. “Fuck yeah, Cas. You’re fucking huge, oh my god.” 

“I believe your coworkers are getting ready to tell me to leave,” Castiel observes almost casually. His mouths at Dean’s breast through his shirt, the heat penetrating through the shell of his bra. “Perhaps we should.” 

“Yep,” Dean replies dizzily. Castiel helps him off his lap and Dean stands on wobbly legs just in time for Erin to approach them, her brow arched and a baseball bat in her hand. 

“You alright, Deanna?” Erin asks, her eyes not leaving Castiel’s face. 

“Perfectly fine, sweetheart,” Dean replies, fitting himself into Castiel’s side and resting a hand on his (firm) chest. “In fact, I think I’m gonna call it an early night.” He sends Erin a playful wink to let her know he’s truly ok, and Erin relents after leaning closer to examine Dean’s face and probably check his eyes to make sure they’re focused - looking to see if Dean’s in his right state of mind. They are, and he is, so Erin is satisfied but suspicious as she turns around and heads back to the bar.

“She had a bat,” Castiel observes as Dean starts to steer them out of the bar. 

“Like I said, me n’ the girls can handle ourselves,” Dean says with a laugh as they leave the flashing lights and thumping baselines.

\--

It’s a pity Castiel can’t just zip them around on his wings anymore, even if Dean’s body usually suffers some sort of complication. The walk to the motel is torturously slow, especially because Castiel has removed his hands from Dean’s body, walking stiffly next to him and making sure there’s a good six inches of space between them. Dean feels ready to snap, all the alcohol evaporated from his system and just leaving him needy with pure desire, and he keeps thinking about the fact that Castiel said he could _smell_ him. Should make him feel self-conscious or something but instead it’s got Dean ramped up, wondering what he smells like to Castiel’s sensitive senses. 

Dean unlocks the motel door and steps inside and is about to complain, loudly, about Castiel cockblocking him, but instead an undignified yelp gets torn from his throat when Castiel picks him up from behind and flips him around in the air, Dean’s arms and legs flailing until all his limbs wrap securely around Castiel’s frame. He’s sans trench coat, practically naked in his suit, his blazer draping over Dean’s thighs as they lock around his waist. The moan Dean lets out is filthy and almost too needy for comfort, but he doesn’t care, because Castiel is walking them towards the bed, where he tosses Dean’s small body onto the mattress.

Bouncing a few times, Dean sits up and immediately starts tugging off his clothes, getting naked much quicker than Castiel, who is… taking his time. Dean watches Castiel’s fingers pop each button on his shirt individually, slowly, his tie loose but still knotted. Licking his lips, Dean shifts to get on his hands and knees, crawling to the end of the bed and kneeling as he lifts his hands to start undoing Castiel’s shirt from the other end. They meet in the middle and Dean pushes the fabric off of Castiel’s broad shoulders, leaning in to start mouthing along the swell of his pecs. Castiel always smells like clean laundry and the calm before a storm, and as Dean drags his lips, teeth and tongue over his skin, Dean’s pretty sure he can taste those scents. 

Latching onto a nipple, Dean starts working on the fastenings of Castiel’s pants. His tie is still hanging pathetically but Dean leaves it, too focused on getting the goods. His hands push Castiel’s slacks and boxers down and Dean leans back a bit so he can look down at Castiel’s gorgeous cock, the head flushed and wet, his balls heavy. 

Taking a few measured breaths, Dean sits back on his haunches, forcing his palms to rest flat on his thighs as he looks up at Castiel.

“Do whatever you want with me.” 

Castiel wastes no time in reaching out and grabbing Dean by the hair, yanking him forward. Dean’s mouth opens from a combination of shock and pain, Castiel’s cock sliding into the opening quickly. Dean gags a little at the force of it and swallows, tears brimming in his eyes from the pressure, and after a few short, shallow thrusts of Castiel’s hips he stills so Dean can adjust. Once he has his breathing under control Dean moans, closing his eyes. Taking it as the permission it is, Castiel starts smoothly thrusting his cock into Dean’s mouth, the head nudging insistently into his throat, and it’s not long before Castiel is pulling away, pinching the base of his cock and letting out a stuttered, shaky moan. 

Licking his lips, Dean sends a smug smile up to Castiel, reaching up to grab his tie and bring him down for a searing kiss. Castiel chases his flavor on Dean’s tongue and Dean lets out a raunchy moan, which quickly turns into a squeal when Castiel grabs him by the waist and hefts him up further onto the bed. A bit of maneuvering, Dean going pliant to allow Castiel to position him as he pleases, and then Dean is on his hands and knees, dropping down to his elbows and arching his back, presenting his ass for his boyfriend.

Castiel slides a reverent hand up Dean’s spine, and there’s no preamble or foreplay before his cock slides into Dean’s velvet heat. Dean’s soaked, anyway. Sharp hips snug against Dean’s ass, Castiel pauses for only a moment, likely to gather his own control, before he pulls out at a torturously slow pace. The head of his cock slips free and he slides it up to Dean’s tight pucker, pressing gently against it, Dean whuffing out a breath of surprised arousal. Castiel pushes back into Dean’s pussy and starts grinding into him deep and slow, Dean able to feel every millimeter of his cock as it moves inside him. His whole body flares hot, sweat breaking out on his brow, and Dean smushes his face into the comforter, his groans of pleasure being muffled by the blanket.

Without warning Castiel’s huge hand is closing around Dean’s throat, forcing him up. Letting out a strangled, surprised cry, Dean has no choice but to follow the strength of that hand as he’s brought up onto his knees, his shoulders pressing into Castiel’s chest. The angle shifts, Castiel’s cock sliding in deeper, and Dean’s body starts trembling at the stimulation. Castiel’s free hand slides down his tummy to his clit, his fingers collecting the wetness spilling down his length before he starts massaging Dean so good stars burst behind his closed eyelids. His cock starts moving again, this time pistoning sharply, Castiel’s hand still closed around the front of Dean’s throat.

“Fu- ye- hngh-!” Dean can’t get out a full word, but he knows Castiel understands his enthusiastic consent. 

In response, Castiel’s fingers press against Dean’s windpipe - not enough to damage, but enough to close off his air supply. Dean sucks in a ragged breath and then feels Castiel’s fingers close that final distance, Dean’s head immediately rushing as he goes lightheaded, his vision spotting. Castiel’s cock is hitting just the right spot, his fingers working magic; he falls into a rhythm of squeezing Dean’s neck for a few moments, releasing it for another few so Dean can suck in some harried breaths, and then cutting off his oxygen again. His fingers and his cock never stop and it’s on a particularly tight, long squeeze of his throat that Dean’s orgasm quakes through him, a scream ripping from his raw throat as he comes so hard he squirts, wetness soaking down Castiel’s balls and thighs, spilling down onto the duvet. Castiel slams into Dean a few more times before he throws Dean down onto the bed, tiny body bouncing, and then pins him as he pulls his cock out and nudges the head insistently against Dean’s asshole; it breaches for a split second, Dean letting out a keen and rocking his hips back in reply, and then he feels Castiel’s cum spilling into his slightly open hole, the stretch not enough to keep his spunk inside as it dribbles out and down Dean’s skin, sticky thickness joining the wetness of Dean’s folds.

They pant in the dark for a few moments, riding the high. Castiel recovers much quicker, retreating to the bathroom for a damp washcloth so he can clean Dean up. He gathers Dean in his arms and Dean goes willingly, limbs limp noodles, and Castiel tosses the duvet off of the bed and onto the floor before gently setting Dean down and tucking him in. He putters around for a few more minutes before joining Dean in bed, gathering his tiny body in his strong arms and drawing him into his chest, wrapping protectively, lovingly around him. 

“Don’t hold out on me ever again,” Dean grumbles against Castiel’s chest, too fucked out to be grumpy.

“I won’t,” Castiel replies softly, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair and kissing his forehead as they settle down. 

After a few moments of silence, Dean murmurs, “Love you.” 

Castiel squeezes his frame gently. “I love you, too.”

\--

“SAM! IT’S A KITSUNE!”

“Are you sure?” 

Dean, sprinting through the woods on the outskirts of the city, glances behind his shoulder at Erin, who has suddenly sprouted claws and fangs and is quickly gaining on him as he does his best to not trip on the underbrush of the forest while he flees.

“PRETTY FUCKING SURE!”

“Do you have a weapon?”

Dean lets out an inelegant, frustrated yell as he pulls his phone away from his ear so he can shout into the receiver, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I’M CALLING YOU FOR!?” His unbuttoned flannel catches on a tree branch and his momentum nearly knocks his body over; a quick squirm and a hop free him from his overshirt and then he’s taking off at an even faster sprint, Erin hot on his heels as he tries to make a break for civilization. 

When he stumbles out into daylight his eyes have a hard time adjusting, and that split second weakness is all it takes for Erin to get the jump on him. Literally. She jumps onto Dean’s back with an inhuman cry, tackling him down to the ground, Dean’s phone skittering across the empty parking lot. Struggling to flip over onto his back, Dean reaches up to put his hand on Erin’s face, trying to keep her snapping fangs away from him, but he won’t be able to hold her off for long. She’s fucking strong, and rabid, and _angry_ \- Erin had invited Dean out for a hike in the woods and what was supposed to be a smoke sesh quickly turned into a decathalon when Dean let slip something about Men of Letters. He’s always been a chatty stoner. 

The struggling comes to an abrupt end when Erin’s eyes go wide and blood drips from her mouth to splatter onto Dean’s face. With a heave Dean tosses Erin’s body off of his own, sitting up and gasping for breath as he sees Castiel standing on the other end of the parking lot, his right hand extended out in front of him. Dean sees the angel blade embedded in Erin’s back and then pouts - he loves when Castiel throws his blade. He missed it. Damn.

Castiel is at Dean’s side in an instant, helping him up. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to Dean, who mops up his face with a grimace. 

“Thanks,” Dean says. 

Castiel frowns down at Erin. “I liked her.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean huffs out a breath, looking down at the kitsune. “Think she was jealous ‘cause I got more tips than her.”

\--

“So get this: apparently when freeze-dried, pituitary glands can last up to twenty years,” Sam says, giant body hunched over the tiny kitchenette table in the motel as he clicks around on his laptop. “That’s why it was a cycle. There was also a fire pit at her house, so I’m pretty sure she was burning the bodies and that’s why they weren’t recovered.”

Dean’s packing up his belongings, Castiel seated across Sam at the table. “Like I said, she was pickin’ on assholes so I wasn’t like… super ready to jump the gun, y’know? But then she took Troy.” He narrows his eyes as he stuffs his shaving kit into his duffel, mourning the man only for his generously open wallet. “Bitch.” 

“I still can’t believe you got high and told her about the Men of Letters,” Sam says, amusement in his voice as he swipes a hand over his mouth. “This is why I don’t let you smoke weed.”

“You don’t _let_ me do shit,” Dean says, uncaring of whatever incorrect grammar he just spouted. He grumbles as he zips his bag, “S’better for sleeping, anyway. How do people get stoned and then function for the whole day?” 

It doesn’t take much longer for them to pile into the Impala, Dean settling his tiny body behind the wheel with a grin. He wraps his fingers around the wheel and leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of it. “Missed you.” 

Cramped in the back seat, Sam snorts. “I don’t know how you handle the competition, Cas.” 

“The Impala cannot asphyxiate Dean during intercourse,” Castiel says plainly, “so I hardly think there is any competition.”

Dean squawks, missing the ignition with his keys. “CAS.”

Sam lies out on the seat, covering his long body with a blanket. “If we drive for the full seven hours… please don’t wake me up.” 

“Of course, Sam,” Castiel says graciously, like he didn’t just expose one of Dean’s kinks.

“Unbelievable,” Dean bitches as he finally turns the keys in the ignition, the car rumbling to life. 

Case closed.


	2. Ver 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a mess.
> 
> sexy tag for this chapter:  
> -threesome (m/f/f)  
> -cunnilingus  
> -fingering

“I!! Am a FUCKING _LADY_!!!!”

Castiel’s head swivels towards a neon-lit dive bar, eyes scanning the small crowd gathered in front of it; from the sounds of it, it’s not a friendly gathering. There’s murmuring and uttering and amused laughter and in the epicenter - Castiel can distinguish Dean’s voice rising above the rest. 

“Touch me again, buddy, and I’ll put your asshole where your mouth used to be!”

Marching forward, trench coat billowing in the damp night air, Castiel elbows his way through the crowd. A few people get jostled and throw curses at him but he ignores them, intent on getting Dean out of whatever situation he managed to get himself into. A “watch it, old man!” has him rounding on a tattooed twenty-something, his blue eyes narrowing in impatient anger as he stares the man down.

“ _Move._ ” Castiel growls.

The guy’s skin pales beneath dark ink and backs away, the last barrier between Castiel and his destination. Turning towards Dean’s voice Castiel holds back a sigh, closing his eyes and sending a prayer up to Chuck, whom he knows isn’t listening, the Pavlovian comfort of praying second nature. If anything, it at least helps him remember to count backwards from ten.

“What’s the matter, _big boy_? Thought you could push around a girl half your size?”

Opening his eyes, Castiel assesses the situation. First, he takes in the man currently being instigated, the hunch of his shoulders menacing and his scowl threatening. He doesn’t seem to have any weapons but his hands are meaty and heavy, and Castiel knows that picking a fight with him would be suicide for anyone in this crowd. A biker type, an angry type, and someone most people definitely take extra care to avoid.

Most people save for Dean Winchester, that is. 

Or tonight, Dean _na_ Smith.

Dean’s standing opposite the angry man, feet squared and back straight. His long, wavy ash blonde hair has been pulled up into a messy ponytail, some bumps on the crown in the dark roots and a few tendrils hanging around his ears. His flannel overshirt has been thrown on the ground, his white tank top nearly see through from a combination of humidity and the way the neon lights are bouncing off of the fabric. His shorts, short enough when he left the motel, are now _obscenely_ short, the hems frayed and shredded in a way that makes the fabric look more like a piece of denim lingerie than actual clothing. His cowgirl boots are caked with mud, and as Castiel’s eyes dance over his petite form, he sees a perfectly shaped muddy, man-sized handprint… right over Dean’s left boob.

He growls.

The crowd backs away.

The man Dean is threatening looks over towards him. Castiel strides purposely towards the big burly man, grabbing him by the lapels of his worn, cigarette-soaked leather jacket, hauling him close. The man has half a foot on Castiel, but Castiel’s eyes glow bright with righteous fury as his voice booms directly into the man’s face, as well as over the crowd.

“Didn’t you ever learn to treat women with _respect_?” Castiel spits.

The man opens his mouth to speak. Castiel adjusts his grip quickly, slamming his palm over the man’s maw, effectively silencing and shocking him.

“Women are not pieces of meat to be eaten, or property to be owned. You would do well to adjust your attitude towards them.”

The man’s eyes widen marginally, darting to look past Castiel’s shoulder, no doubt at Dean. Castiel jerks the man in his grip, forcing his eyes back to him. There’s fear in his eyes now, as well as a lot of confusion, but Castiel is burning hot with anger. 

“You are lucky I got here when I did,” Castiel says lowly, darkly. He gets as close to the man as he can without kissing him, making sure only he can hear his next words. “She would have killed you and not thought twice about where to dispose of your body.” 

The smell of urine hits the air. Castiel shoves the man backwards, eyes glowing bright as the biker trips over himself in an attempt to keep from falling.

“Consider this a second chance.” Castiel quickly scans the man’s head, and then adds, “Your mother would be very disappointed in you, Avery.” 

The biker turns tail and bolts. The crowd seems too shocked to really do anything other than disperse and go off in different directions, clearly intending on being nowhere near the violent girl and her equally violent partner. Once the street is relatively empty Castiel sighs, turning around to finally fully look at Dean.

Dean, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is rocking slightly on his heels, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with alcohol and a hint of arousal. “Heya, Cas.” 

Castiel lets out an insufferable sigh. “Dean. Are you hurt?” 

Dean squints. Castiel gestures towards his chest, where Dean glances down and then abruptly laughs, pulling his tank top out a bit so he can see the handprint on his breast better. “Oh, that’s fucking hilarious.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel is right in front of Dean in two quick steps, resisting the urge to shake him when he’s in such a delicate form and obviously drunk. “Why did you take off?” 

“I was bored,” Dean whines a little, swaying slightly away from Castiel. He reaches out to grab his trench coat to keep himself upright, tiny hands white-knuckling. “You and Sam were off doing Fed things and I- _hic_ -got bored. All you need me for is bait and it’s _boring_.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Castiel says dryly. He does a quick scan of Dean’s body, and then sighs. “Let’s get you back to the motel so you can sleep this off.” 

Tipping his head back and letting out a dramatic groan, Dean pushes away from Castiel. “ _Fiiiine_. But you’re _not_ carrying me.” 

Castiel hides his smile by reaching up to scratch his nose, as they start walking down the street to their motel. “Of course.”

\--

“Say that to my face, chuckles!”

From where he’s sitting at the bar, Castiel lets out a resigned sigh. Knocking back his shot, he turns his shot glass upside down on the bar, pulls a bill out of his pocket, and nods his thanks to the bartender, who is giving him a pointed look. Once he’s standing Castiel makes his way over to the commotion; Dean’s at the pool tables, stick in hand, cheeks flushed from the three Purple Nurples he chugged back to back twenty minutes ago.

“Don’t play tough, little girl,” a man says from the other side of the pool table, clearly unimpressed by whatever antics Dean is currently playing up. “I won fair and square.”

Now, Castiel is fully aware that in order to hustle properly, Dean needs to lose some before he can win. In retrospect, he should have been keeping a better eye on Dean while he worked the tables, but he’s so used to _not_ having to keep an eye on Dean when he hustles, his judgment had lapsed. Which was clearly a mistake. 

Tonight Dean’s wearing tight jeans and a blue halter top, his breasts modestly covered but his hips and ass on full display. He had curled his hair and applied makeup (while Castiel had watched, fascinated; those girls down in Lafayette really taught Dean a whole new skillset) and announced that he was going to win some cash tonight. Once again: not normally a problem.

Castiel is used to Dean picking meaningless fights. Either he gets unamused fairly quickly and goes on his merry way or he ends up beating a stranger to a pulp - there’s typically no in between. Only now Dean is about a third of his normal size, and drunk, and Castiel doesn’t really foresee any great resolution for the argument he’s currently in. 

Dean slaps a handful of twenty dollar bills down on the edge of the pool table, glaring daggers up at the man. Castiel knows that it’s a measly chunk of change compared to the winnings Dean got last night at a different bar, but the man eyes it hungrily. “Play me again, _pal_.”

Hanging back, because it seems like Dean is just being a bit more dramatic than usual, Castiel perches on a stool at a small table so he can watch the proceedings without difficulty. Dean doesn’t like it when Castiel hovers like this, even when he’s in his regular body, but Dean either hasn’t noticed him or doesn’t care as he racks up. The man he’s playing eyes Dean’s ass as he bends over the table to pluck at and arrange the balls; Castiel adjusts on his seat, resting his forearm on the table and drumming his fingers slowly. Men ogling Dean isn’t a new thing, whether or not he’s in a female body, but this man is just being blatant. 

Castiel knows Dean will play it up. A drunk, pretty girl is easy prey in a bar like this. 

Sure enough, Dean straightens from racking the balls and hangs the triangle up, picking up his cue from where he laid it on the table. The man is chalking his own stick, leaning against it idly, eyes on Dean as he once again bends over the table to line up his shot. He’s quite impressive to look at; Dean had been comfortable in this body the moment he got it, and at first Castiel had been confused about Dean’s easy acceptance - but then, the more he saw Dean in this form, down in Louisiana and even here this past week, he realized that it matters not what body Dean is occupying. Dean is Dean. Male or female. He still chews with his mouth open, makes inappropriate jokes at the most inopportune times, makes fun of Sam whenever he can, and perhaps most importantly, despite the sheer difference in size, he’s still a skilled hunter. 

And strong.

_So_ strong for his size. 

Returning to the pool game, Castiel watches as Dean lackadaisically lines up a purposely bad shot. The man is smirking to himself, clearly enjoying the fact that Dean is giving him a show as well as the prospect of winning back double his previous bid. 

“Woops,” Dean lets out when he scratches. 

“You sure you wanna keep goin’, sweetheart?” The man asks as he taps his finger on the wad of bills still sitting on the ledge of the table. “This kinda feels like highway robbery.”

“No, no,” Dean waves a hand, leaning against his pool stick. His hip is cocked out, the curve of his body accentuated as he sends the man a slightly terse smile. “I’m warmin’ up still. It’ll come to me.” 

The man isn’t convinced, which is good. They line up a few more shots and with each one, Dean’s hand gets steadier, his eyes get more focus, and his posture goes from flirty to professional. Castiel watches him sink solid after solid, keeping up with the man, and then finally overtake him with two balls, including the eight, on the table. Eyes wide, the man is staring at the table in shock, and Dean must see what Castiel sees cross over his face because Dean lets out a flirty giggle and flips his ponytail from side to side, fanning his face.

“Whew! Finally warmed up! Guess I just needed to pee out all that alcohol~”

The man’s gaze cuts towards Dean, his brows furrowing slightly. He says nothing, bending to line up his shot, but it’s no use. Even if he sinks all his balls, he’s still one behind Dean. And sure enough, just as the guy lines up his shot to the eight ball, Dean, from the other end of the pool table, bends over and squeezes his arms inwards slightly, pushing and squishing his cleavage as he dons a spectacular doe-eyed look. 

The man scratches. 

Dean giggles brightly and dances over to the other side of the table, lining up his shot and sinking the eight ball without hesitation. Setting his cue on the table he picks up the wad of cash, double what it’d had been when he first started, and tucks it into the back pocket of his tight jeans. 

“Thanks for the ride, big boy~” Dean reaches up and gives the man’s cheek a patronizing pat. 

A mistake. 

The man grabs Dean’s wrist tightly, causing Dean to wince a bit as he drags him towards his chest. “You played me.” 

Dean manages an eyeroll. “Yeah, genius. I played pool with you.”

“You _hustled_ me,” the man iterates.

Castiel is tense.

Dean flashes a sunny smile towards the man, a cold one that doesn’t reach his smokey eyes. “Can’t handle being beat by a girl, tough guy?” 

“I got a different way for you to earn that money,” the guy starts.

Eyes narrowing, Dean twists his wrist out of the man’s grip, and then he’s using the surprise and leverage to yank the man’s arm over his shoulder, letting out a war cry as he flips the man feet over head to flatten him onto the pool table. The man is dazed and Dean leans over him, that sunny smile back in place, the tips of his ponytail brushing over the man’s chin as he speaks. 

“The next time you think about dishonoring a woman’s integrity, I want you to think about the night you got your ass handed to you at and on the pool table.”

The man swallows thickly, nodding, clearly startled and scared.

Another patronizing pat to the man’s cheek and then Dean straightens, turning around to scan the bar. He finds Castiel easily enough and then skips over to him, standing between his knees, reaching up to grab him by the lapels of his trench coat and yank him down for a kiss. A few men groan, clearly unaware that the fiery girl is spoken for, and when Dean pulls away the warmth is back in his eyes and smile. 

“Wanna pay-per-view the adult channels at the motel with our winnings?” Dean asks, waggling his perfectly shaped brows. 

Castiel rolls his eyes to keep from chuckling, squeezing Dean’s hips gently with his thighs and drawing him in for another kiss. “You’re trouble.” 

“With a capital T,” Dean agrees. 

At least tonight he doesn’t have to drag Dean back to the motel.

\--

“SHOTS FOR EVERYONE!!”

Last night’s winnings are dwindling fast. Dean’s been buying anyone and everyone a drink at the bar. Castiel knows that even though Dean seems ostentatious (Sam would say ‘obnoxious’, but Castiel would disagree), he knows that as bait, Dean needs to draw as much attention to himself as possible. The werewolf loves bossy blondes, attention seekers and crowd pleasers, and Dean falls into the role so perfectly because… well, he is those things. 

Slamming a wad of cash on the bar top, the female waitresses are egging Dean on. Castiel watches from his spot in a booth as Dean clambers up on a stool, palm in the hand of a pretty brunette, and then once Dean is up on the bar he lets out a whoop, taking his cowboy hat off of his head and giving a deep, exaggerated bow. Whistles and cheers sound from the crowd as the music blares and the bartenders beneath him start pouring shots; Dean downs one and then starts passing them out as well, alcohol sloshing over the rims of the glasses and dripping down his arms. 

Tonight he’d said ‘go big or go home’ while he’d been getting ready. Dean can posture all he wants, and insist that being female for him is no different than being male (“different equipment, same operator buddy”), but Castiel knows that Dean enjoys dressing up and… well, getting pretty. Tonight he’s wearing another pair of daisy dukes, these ones all in one piece, not a fray in sight - but the hem is obscenely short, the meat of Dean’s buttcheeks visible every time he bends over. The waist is low, hip bones on display, and he’s wearing a plain white tank top with no bra underneath, his small, perky breasts practically on display. His hair is down and tousled with what he called ‘beach waves’, and there’s so much glitter on his body he’s lit up like a disco ball. 

He’s, in a word: stunning. 

Captivating to men and women alike, Dean dances on the bartop in his cowgirl boots, passing out shots and downing just as many. The music pumping through the speakers of his bar is upbeat and bass-filled, a nice change from the country twang in the dives they’ve been frequenting. Dean’s a little out of place in his country girl getup, but the crowd seems to think it’s novel, and they’re eating it up anyway. Castiel watches quietly as Dean flirts with anyone who glances his way; they’d decided that tonight has to be the night they get the werewolf. It’s the full moon, and they’ve visited every alcohol establishment in town over the past two weeks to ensure that if the werewolf had been at any of them, he’d no doubt seen Dean in the crowd. 

Tonight is the night he’ll pounce, both of them are sure of it. 

So while Dean performs an impromptu routine, hips shaking, waist bending, hands caressing himself, Castiel does his best to keep his eye on everyone else in the bar. A difficult task, since Castiel had been unaware that Dean could move his body in such a manner. It’s entirely distracting. Drumming his fingers over the table top, Castiel twitches his wrist, ready to call his angel blade forth at any moment. Causing a scene in the bar would be the least of his worries if the werewolf decided to show up. 

Forcing his attention back to the crowd in front of Dean with a bit more of a clinical eye, Castiel catalogues everyone. Men, women; old, young; students, professionals; it’s an array of people eager for free booze and a show. Dean delivers both. But there’s a hand that lifts up with a wad of bills, fingers tucking the green into the waistband of Dean’s shorts, and Castiel zeroes in on that. Dean sends a roguish smile down at the perpetrator, turning around and showing off his backside as he writhes his body in time with the music. More hands fly up, more bills get stuffed into his shorts, and Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose idly. 

Only Dean could offer to buy a bar a round of shots for free and get money, anyway.

(“There’s always a hustle, Cas. Ya just gotta find it.” Dean had told him just the other day.)

One of the bartenders gets up on the bar as well. The crowd hoots and hollers and Castiel straightens a bit, curious. It’s the pretty brunette draping her arms across Dean’s shoulders; Dean’s prettily arched brows jump up to the brim of his cowboy hat and then his hands are resting on the bartender’s waist, dragging her forward. Their thighs slot, their feet brace, and then they start filthily grinding on each other, the crowd _losing_ it. 

Castiel watches with a dry mouth. He’s no stranger to Dean flirting to get what he needs, in any situation, but something about seeing Dean _na_ ’s hands all over a woman has Castiel feeling hot under the collar. The brunette is very aesthetically pleasing, with supple curves and dimples in her smile, and she’s wearing shorts almost as sort as Dean’s with a top that could only be described as a fancy bra with excess fabric. Dean welcomes her, of course, his body a few inches shorter than hers, and their noses bump, Dean’s hat tipping back slightly as more hands push more money towards them. 

Pockets full of green the two beauties on the bar play it up for the crowd. Castiel watches their hands wander over each other; at one point the brunette’s fingers graze over one of Dean’s nipples, visibly hard under his thin white tank top, and Dean’s head tips back, euphoric smile on his glossed lips as he grinds down against the woman’s thigh. 

Castiel crosses his legs.

Things are escalating quickly between the women, the crowd getting wilder and wilder, and Castiel has the delirious wonder as to whether or not they’re going to kiss. He should be appalled at the idea, shouldn’t be so curious about whether or not Dean will _cheat_ on him, but something in his backfiring brain is telling him that it’d be ok. It would be perfectly fine with Castiel if Dean locked lips with this beautiful woman, let his hands dip into her shorts for a feel.

What if Dean were a man and acting like this?

Castiel focuses hard on that thought, but still can’t find any anxiety within himself at the thought. Earlier on in their… partnership, whenever Castiel had learned that Dean had had his way with a flavor of the week, Castiel had been mildly annoyed, but not particularly possessive or jealous about it. Firstly, Dean and Castiel hadn’t been an item until two years ago, and in Castiel’s first years on Earth everything had been so chaotic he hadn’t had the sense of mind to try and sort through the emotions he had for the hunter. Neither of them had been able to give the budding thing between them much attention with the world trying to come to an end every other year. Eventually Dean stopped sleeping with random people, Castiel can’t quite remember when the change happened, but it was shortly after that he and Castiel had managed to ‘get their heads out of their asses’ (Sam’s words). 

In any case, Castiel hadn’t had to worry about Dean’s attention wavering for quite some time. They were getting old, and Dean had admitted at one point that he’s ‘too tired to chase tail, good thing I locked one down’. A rather brash thing to say, but Castiel had taken no offense to it, well aware of Dean’s… stilted way of expressing his emotions. 

So: Castiel thinks about it. He thinks about how he’d react if he saw Dean flirting with someone else, now that they’ve been in an established relationship for a few years. There’s an odd twist in his stomach, and it does feel a bit possessive, but…

The hair on the back of his neck prickles and he raises his gaze to the bar. Dean is staring directly at him, smokey eyes hooded, thick, false lashes lowered as his hands slide around the brunette’s curvy waist to get a palmful of her ass. 

Castiel’s emotions sort themselves out quickly.

If Dean were to blatantly cheat on him, it’d be a problem.

But if Dean were to, hypothetically, bring in another playmate… 

His cock throbs in his slacks. 

One of these days he’ll be able to pinpoint his emotions quicker than a snail, but he’s still learning. 

Besides, he has Dean to help him along.

He watches as Dean leans to speak into the bartender’s ear, lips parted in a smile, teeth catching the black lights and glowing violet as he makes some sort of suggestion in her ear. The bartender’s hands slide to grope Dean’s ass in turn and then they’re both laughing, gazes finding Castiel where he’s seated in the crowd.

They’re deviating from the plan. 

As Dean and the bartender get helped off of the bar top, he finds himself uncaring. 

The crowd parts for Dean and his new friend, Castiel shifting in the booth as they approach. 

“Hey babe,” Dean greets. His cheeks are flushed but his makeup and hair are still perfect, his pinky hooked loosely around the bartender’s. “This is Marie. Marie, this is Cas.”

Castiel inclines his head politely, hoping the darkness in his eyes has cleared. “Hello.” 

Marie’s eyes wander up and down Castiel’s frame, and he resists a squirm as she sends a wolfish smile towards Dean. “I’ve always had a thing for older men.” 

Dean catches Castiel’s eye, communicating without words even as he says, “Well, I’m sure we can both enjoy him really good back at our place.” 

Heat zips through Castiel’s system. He wouldn’t refuse, but there’s something in Dean’s gaze - something… intriguing, but also something that leaves no room for argument. So Castiel offers a tentative smile and nods, standing up and allowing Dean to loop his arm through his as they start to leave the bar. 

The instant they’re in the motel room Castiel gets slammed up against the door, his clothes being pulled from his body. Dean and Marie get him down to his boxers in what feels like seconds, Castiel’s cock half-hard against his thigh and his breathing elevated. Dean grabs Marie roughly by her hair and drags her forward, sealing their mouths together, Castiel’s eyes stuck on how their beautiful bodies mesh together. 

Oh, this carnal sin. 

Dean leads Marie back towards the bed, reaching up to do something to the bralette Marie is wearing, the fabric being tossed to the floor after a few seconds. Caramel skin on display, Marie falls back on the bed with a smile, wriggling her hips as she undoes her shorts and starts shimmying them down her legs. Dean pulls off his tank top carelessly and tosses it aside and from his position leaned up against the door Castiel watches as his boyfriend settles himself between Marie’s legs, head dipping so his mouth can trail across the swell of her breasts, hands roving and groping. 

Marie’s fingers tangle in Dean’s long hair, gripping tight as Dean kisses a trail down her tummy, Dean’s hands now moving towards his shorts to divest himself of the rest of his clothes.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, pressing his forehead to Marie’s hip briefly before turning towards where Castiel is frozen against the door. His eyes are hooded, but there’s a sharpness to them. “C’mere. Naked.” 

Castiel complies, and once he’s fully in the buff he makes his way over towards the bed, unsure of where he’s supposed to go, or how exactly the mechanics of this situation work. Marie settles his indecision by sitting up and reaching out, boldly gripping his cock without invitation or warning, using that point of contact to guide Castiel onto the bed.

“Fuck,” Marie breathes, “you’re huge.” 

Before Dean, Castiel’s body had only been touched intimately by one person- the reaper. His marriage with Daphne had been celibate, and he typically refuses to think about the kiss he and Meg had shared. Marie’s tan fingers wrapping around his flesh shouldn’t be so delightful, but it is, and Castiel carefully kneels on the bed by Marie’s head as Dean buries his face between her thighs, wet sounds and soft moans filling the air. 

Marie’s mouth makes contact with Castiel’s cock and he shudders, unsure of where to put his hands. He knows the basics of casual sex, and feels like putting his hands in Marie’s hair would cross a line he doesn’t want to think about. So, Castiel leans forward a bit, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair before gathering it up and pulling it away from his face. He’s got a bird’s eye view of Dean licking into Marie’s folds, and Castiel’s cock throbs in reply, precum spurting onto Marie’s waiting tongue. 

Dean eats pussy like he’s starving, which makes sense, because he’s just as enthusiastic about eating ass. His lips and chin are shiny and slick whenever he pulls back for air, his eyes lifting to catch Castiel’s, heat swirling in verdant depths. The three of them rock together, slick sounds and moans reverberating in the room, and it doesn’t take long for Marie to pull off of Castiel’s cock and prop herself up on her elbows.

“Let’s fuck,” Marie declares.

Dean pulls his fingers free from where he’d been teasing Marie’s pussy, sitting up with a grin. “You wanna call the shots, sweetheart?” 

Marie reaches out to grab Dean by the hair, dragging him up her body to crash their mouths together. She obscenely licks the wetness from Dean’s mouth and chin and then pulls away, panting, a devilish smile on her lips. “I have an idea or two.” 

With Marie’s direction while Dean hands Castiel a condom, they shuffle into position. Marie is straddling Dean’s hips, their bodies aligned in a way that when Marie drips wetly, her fluids drop directly onto Dean’s clit. They’re close, and from behind Marie, between Dean’s legs, Castiel eyes the way their pussies throb, almost in time with one another.

“Surprise us,” Marie breathes. 

Castiel puts his hands on Marie’s hips and crowds close to their bodies. Dean spreads his legs and first Castiel dips the head of his cock into Dean’s folds, letting out a shaky breath. The condom doesn’t dull much of the sensation, but he wishes he could feel his slick on his skin, rub it into his glans and mark himself with it. He rocks his hips back and forth, shallowly thrusting into Dean’s body, barely letting his head get squeezed by the tightness before he pulls out and then angles his hips to shove his cock into Marie’s waiting hole. She keens and arches her back before collapsing over Dean, and Castiel sees Dean’s arm move, the sudden gasping and panting from Marie letting Castiel know that Dean has started pleasuring her clit with his fingers. 

Castiel fucks Marie deeply and slowly, occasionally pulling out to put his cock into Dean, next. There’s no pattern or rhythm to it, Castiel alternating to fill their throbbing pussies and do his best to give them what they need. Marie and Dean’s mouths meet messily, intermittently, sharing breaths and tongue fucking each other more than actually kissing. Marie’s body is so different than Dean’s; Marie is curvy, breasts heavy where they mash against Dean’s more modest endowments, and whenever Castiel’s hips slam into her ass he sees the ripple of it go up the length of her back. 

Eventually Castiel settles in to fucking Dean while Dean fingers Marie relentlessly. Castiel wonders how Dean’s wrist doesn’t tire, but he can’t hold onto that thought for too long. Castiel shifts his knees into the bed, spreading them so he can lean back, looking down at where their bodies are joined to watch Dean’s fingers squelch wetly in and out of Marie’s pussy as Castiel fucks his boyfriend. It’s quite a sight, messy and debauched, Marie _dripping_ down onto where Dean and Castiel are joined. Curiously, Castiel moves his hand towards Dean’s, sliding in two fingers next to Dean’s. Marie gasps and yells out profanities as she arches her back and straightens, her hands on Dean’s shoulders as she props herself up, fucking her body down onto their fingers. 

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Marie chants. 

Sensing her approach to orgasm, Castiel pulls out of Dean’s body and then grabs Marie by her biceps, dragging her back to his chest as he spears his cock up into her pussy. She yells so loudly her voice gives out halfway through and then she’s coming, trembling violently, her frame shaking. She pulls herself away from Dean and Castiel with uneven gasps for breath, and then Dean is getting his feet under him to push Castiel onto his back, ripping the condom off with slippery fingers and tossing it aside before sitting on Castiel’s cock. 

It should be embarrassing, but Castiel ejaculates almost immediately. Dean feels it and groans, dropping his head back and grinding his hips down against Castiel’s pelvis, milking him for all it’s worth. His hand slides to Castiel’s right wrist, and he presses against the tender underside of it insistently. 

Castiel’s eyes fly open in alarm.

There’s a growl from the other side of the bed.

Still seated on Castiel’s cock Dean presses hard enough to Castiel’s skin that his grace swells, his angel blade slipping out of the ether for Dean to grab. Flipping the handle in his palm Dean turns his body just in time to stab Marie through the chest - Marie, fangs out, eyes wild, claws sharp, quite clearly on her way to attack.

Marie falls off the edge of the bed onto the floor in a bloody heap.

Panting heavily, Dean and Castiel stare at her body. After a moment Dean lets out a delirious giggle, dropping the angel blade to the bed as he gets off of Castiel’s softening cock.

“We just fucked a werewolf,” Dean laughs. 

Castiel stares up at the ceiling, trying to process the past thirty seconds. “In all my millennia as the leader in my garrison, I have never, _ever_ , come close to the battle improvisation that you execute on the fly.”

Dean looks pretty satisfied as he clambers off of the bed and heads to the bathroom, likely with the intent to clean himself up with a towel. “What can I say? I’m a tactical genius.” 

Weary from the intense intercourse as well as the slingshot of killing their partner, Castiel sits up on the bed and looks down at Marie’s body. “How did you know she was the werewolf?” 

“Well,” Dean turns on the shower and then leans against the bathroom door, towel wrapped around his body as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at Marie. “Pretty early on I figured out we were looking for a woman, not a man.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel looks up at Dean, watching as he starts to gather his hair up into a high bun.

“Sam said that the violence at the scenes wasn’t very… violent,” Dean shrugs, dropping his arms once his hair is up. “And there was evidence of sexy times at the scenes. You can say I’m stereotyping all I want, but if a dude werewolf is gonna fuck someone and then kill ‘em, they’d probably leave a huge mess. But if a woman is gonna fuck someone and then kill ‘em, they’d do it with a bit more finesse, y’know? Women like seduction. They like playing cat and mouse.” Castiel gets up from the bed to follow as Dean disappears into the bathroom, still talking over the sound of water running. “When we didn’t have any luck at the dive bars, that left _Lucy’s_. And if a werewolf is on the prowl in such a classy establishment, we can determine a few things. First:” Dean hangs the towel up on the rack and steps into the shower. Castiel steps in behind him. “The werewolf isn’t some scuz ball. They’re attractive and able to seduce beautiful women into bed with them. Get their interest, and their trust.” He turns towards Castiel, grabbing the soap and starting to lather the angel’s chest as he talks. “Second: no eye witnesses mentioned a strange dude wandering off with women, so we could assume that the werewolf is a regular customer, or perhaps even an employee.” 

“I see,” Castiel nods. His extremities still feel a little numb from the wild ride he just went through. “From these inferences you concluded that the werewolf would be a female employee at the bar.” 

Dean smiles prettily, grabbing Castiel’s hands and placing them directly over his breasts. “Yep.” He arches slightly, nipples hardening under Castiel’s palms. “Anyway, case closed, she came, you came, I haven’t, so help a guy out, hm?” 

Rolling his eyes a bit, Castiel leans down to press a kiss to Dean’s mouth, still able to taste Marie on his lips. “Even with a body in the room, you’re insatiable.”

“With a capital I,” Dean agrees easily. 

Castiel backs him against the tiled wall of the shower, large hand sliding down Dean’s petite body to hook around the back of his thigh, lifting it up to rest on his hip. His fingers slide between them, circling Dean’s clit gently, Castiel humming against Dean’s ear. 

“You minx,” he murmurs lowly. “Involving me… did you enjoy your threesome?” 

Dean whuffs out a little laugh, rocking his hips and hiking his thigh higher up on Castiel’s hip, silently encouraging his fingers to continue their exploration. “Fuck yeah I did. Two birds, one stone. Lesbian sex that I’m a part of, _and_ a threesome.” 

“You’re lucky I would do anything for you,” Castiel says honestly. “Anything _with_ you.”

A moment of honest fondness and softness flickers over Dean’s features as he lifts his arms to wrap them around Castiel’s shoulders. “I know. No matter what, you’ve always got my back… and I’m more than thankful for it.” 

Satisfied, Castiel slips his fingers into Dean’s heat, leisurely thrusting them in and out while Dean rocks against him. Their mouths meet again, Castiel’s tongue sliding into Dean’s mouth, tasting every corner before retreating so his teeth can worry Dean’s lips until they swell. It doesn’t take long for Dean to come apart just from Castiel’s fingers, and they finish up their shower properly within the next five minutes. 

Out in the main room Dean sighs as he stares at Marie’s body on the floor. Not a lot of blood had spilled, thankfully, and Castiel starts getting dressed, intent on disposing of the body. 

“Hey,” Dean says as he starts pulling on clothes as well.

Castiel glances up from buttoning his shirt, head tilting. 

Dean’s smiling, hardly any bravado in it. “This was nice, but uh. Pretty sure I’m ok with it being a one time thing.” 

“Unfortunately, I am sure we will come across plenty other werewolves in the future,” Castiel replies gravely, purposely dodging Dean’s point.

It has the intended effect - Dean laughs, rolling his eyes as he pulls on a sweatshirt. “Jesus, a guy tries to speak from the heart.”

Castiel reaches out and pulls Dean towards him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I’m well aware of what you meant, Dean. And I agree.”

Dean weakly hits him in the chest. “You can be such a jerk.”

Castiel grins. “With a capital J.” 

Castiel has experienced a lot in his millennia of existence, but quiet exchanges of love while a corpse slowly bleeds out and rots on the floor is definitely a first.

And, he thinks to himself as Dean kicks Marie’s limp shin with a hoot, probably not the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i!! really!! hate/suck at writing case fics!!!!!!! i'm SORRY  
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)

**Author's Note:**

> i hate writing case fics  
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/deansdaisydukes)


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